


Crawling Towards Eternity

by Aewin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bloodplay, Body Horror, Delusions, F/M, Helmsman, Illustrated, Mental Breakdown, Piercings, Possessiveness, Quadrant Confusion like whoa, Sadism, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/pseuds/Aewin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Condesce doesn't really <i>get</i> the flushed quadrant, much to her helmsman's dismay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crawling Towards Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr user [fuchsia-honey](http://fuchsia-honey.tumblr.com/) requested a Psiicon fic from [me](http://solluxisms.tumblr.com), and this is what popped out of my twisted brain. Enjoy.
> 
> Now with gift art from [spockandawe](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com) and [anonei](http://aei-sb.tumblr.com/)! Thank you very much for bringing my scenes to life!

You are Empress Meenah Peixes, and you will not condescend to be beaten by a distasteful mutant and his repellent adherents. The whole affair was, quite frankly, cutting into your leisure time. You can’t say it wasn’t prime entertainment though, when the shackles heated to a cherry-red hue that quite nearly matched the loathsome blood flowing sluggishly from his side. And the way he screamed, oh, that was music better than any your decomposers have ever devised, intense and obscene and utterly futile against the might of your empire.

You sold the rebellious jadeblood into slavery; if she is so eager to be helpful, it may as well be in proper service to a highblood. Your own executioner turned on you and allowed the degenerate’s matesprit to escape. You would have culled him yourself if you’d known before you left Alternia, but the news wasn’t passed to you until a court of his peers had banished him. Instead, you culled the messenger, and the heady rush of adrenaline as his pulse fluttered into nothingness under your fingers soothed you enough to let the sentence stand unchanged. Regardless, you are quite glad to be done with it.

Well. _Nearly_ done with it.

They’re still installing the pissblood. You will have your revenge, with the added bonus of having the fastest ship in recorded history. Your docterrorists have spent hours assuring you that he’s the highest-class psionic they’ve ever seen, and that the time spent designing an improved helmsblock was necessary to contain his power. They didn’t have to tell you. It was glaringly obvious from the way he fought to get to his dying moirail, hurling crackling bolts of red and blue that sliced away ranks of your soldiers in bloody, burning swathes. The display of power left you breathless—you thought that here, at last, might be a worthy opponent!—but he soon staggered wearily and fell with a primal, anguished scream that sent shivers through your fins, rattling your jewelry and your composure alike until you were forced to shift in your seat to conceal your suddenly-straining bulge. Thank the Messiahs that your suit is liquid-resistant.

Now, though—now, he’s limp and pliant. He’s been pumped full of psionic suppressants and soporifics, and is gazing around with bleary-eyed, infuriating indifference as he’s stretched into the helmsblock by your finest medicullers. You worry that they used too many drugs. You worry this up until the instant the first knife bites into his suspended wrist and he screams for you again, a shrieking high-pitched wail that continues until the flesh has been peeled back from the forearm far enough to splice the wires into him. It dwindles into a sob as they sew him up with their dreadful, clicking needles, and it’s quiet enough that you can hear your quickening heartbeat over the rustling of uniforms. The blade drips with yellow as it’s raised to his other arm, and you hold your breath in anticipation.

He twitches when he’s cut, and it rips a jagged line down his arm. His teeth clench tight as he takes a sharp breath. He’s obviously trying not to sob, but he fails miserably; his exhale comes in the form of a whimper that sends a shock of sensation pulsing through your nook, tangible enough that you have them double-check the efficacy of the suppressants to ensure that it wasn’t actually a burst of psionic energy.

Watching the blood well from the incision at the base of his skull prompts your bulge to unsheathe, inching its way out in lazy twists with every slow _drip, drip, drip_ of useless mustard sludge. It’s irritating. This is twice now; _twice_ that he’s made you lose control in front of your subjects. He’s a defeated troll, has lived most of his life in slavery to the empire (and will live _many, many_ more lifetimes to ensure he continues to do so), and is now spreading a dirty yellow stain across your pristine flooring. Glubbing impudent, is what you’d call it. You shouldn’t be aroused by this trash.

But you are.

When he’s been fully integrated with the ship, the medicullers pack their gear and leave, bobbing nervously up and down in unpracticed bows as they exit the block. And then it’s you and him. The scent of blood is thick in the air and it makes your gills flare with interest, an instinctual reminder that he is completely within your power. You move forward to observe him at close range: shallow breathing, a feverish golden flush, impeccably-placed stitches lining his fragile limbs like a picture frame. He’s a study in oddities; all mutated horns and twin-tipped ears, tiny tips of a forked tongue dangling down to press against prominent teeth.

You lift an eyelid gently. He’s so hot against your flesh that it _burns._ He whines, and his eye rolls back in his head, but it’s the same color throughout—the deep blue of the Alternian ocean at sunset—and the other is the bright red of your emblem, painted on the exterior of this very ship. Fitting, then, that he should serve you. A perfect match.

He moans when you trace your thumbpad over his stitches. You’re hit full-force with another dart of desire, and you finally pinpoint your problem.

_Pity._ You’d thought yourself above the emotion, but right now he’s the most pitiful troll in existence. The mighty, brought low on _your_ orders. A gasp wrenches itself from your throat as the tip of your bulge works itself into your own nook in the absence of a partner’s, and you abscond to the ablution block.

You whimper almost as embarrassingly as him when the first spray of water hits your skin. This is what you’ve always had to do to keep most of those pretty, pretty princesses out of the caves, and it’s always been enough just to stroke yourself to completion as the warmth of the water envelops you. But it’s not enough today; this isn’t the heat you need or the partner you want, and it’s a disappointment to find yourself braced against the wall and panting heavily as your priceless royal fuchsia swirls down the drain.

Perhaps you _will_ fill a pail with him, and give it to the Mother when she’s empty. The grub would be unmistakably yours. If it’s tyrian you can simply cull it, and if it’s yellow it would be a perfect political gift to some impressive general or another. Yes. You think you’ll do that, someday.

———

Your new ship flies beautifully.

Perhaps you should reward him.

———

The helmsblock is pristine, staffed by a pair of trolls that specialize in psionic interfacing and…you can’t actually remember what the other one does. Perhaps you should have her reassigned. When you order them out of the room, the tealblood reminds you that the soporific levels are finely tuned, and that it would be dangerous to allow him any level of autonomy. You suppose you’ll reassign _him_ instead. He’s lucky you don’t cull him for impeding your entertainment.

Still, you’ll keep the yellowblood drugged for now. It wouldn’t do to have your first session with him be a failure, and if he’s docile he’ll be easier to learn, easier to pick apart and analyze piece by filthy piece. But to do so, you’ll need access. Your nails shred the flimsy flightsuit like it’s so much cobwebbing in the corner, and there are neatly oozing rows of blood visible when you tear the tattered cloth away from his gently-breathing form.

He tastes of pepper and iron, heavy scents that burn an exhilarating path from mouth to gills. He’s thick on your tongue, thicker than any you’ve tasted before, and you wonder if it’s because he’s a lowblood or because he’s a helmsman. By the time you’ve licked him clean your entire mouth has been suffused with the tang of pity, and the steady thud of his heartbeat pounds in your ears. It’s akin to a Messianic ritual; drums thrumming, mind soaring, adrenaline rising.

You _want_ this, and you _deserve_ it, so it will be yours. You _own_ this pathetic piece of property, and nobody can stop you from using it as you please.

His nook tastes much the same, but the texture is immensely different; it’s smooth under your tongue, all soft folds and slick heat. His breath hitches when your teeth lightly scratch him and draw blood, and your bulge presses against your clothing at the sound. It’s pitiful, but not quite pitiful enough.

You can fix that. You can render him wretched and ruined in your hands. It won’t even be a challenge.

Either the soporifics are wearing off or you’re causing too much pain for them to dull, because he cries out like a wriggler when you sink your sharp fangs into the outer edges of his nook. His bulge hasn’t joined the party yet, but you can fix that too. You sink two fingers into him, teasing and tickling at the ridge of nerves beneath his sheath. It squirms out slowly at first, but a bit of judicious sucking at the bite coaxes it to full length. It’s bizarre and mutated, the same as the rest of him, and it just makes you loathe him more. You’re throbbing at his weakness, pleasure spiraling through you in lazy waves as you straighten.

Silent, muddy tears are flowing down his cheeks as he shudders in the wires, and it’s making an awful mess of him. One hand strokes him, fingers weaving through his disgusting mutation, and then inspiration strikes and you claw your symbol into his chest with the other hand to make it clear he’s yours. It bleeds badly around the jagged curves, smearing across your breasts as you lean in to grind against him. The tip of his bulge rubs harshly against your suit as if it’s trying to tear its way through the fabric, and the friction drives you mad. You won’t be able to fully join with him with all of these wires in the way—you’re really going to have to see about sponsoring some research into compact helmsgear—but you’re not sure you _need_ to, if the pleasant fluttering in your nook is any indication.

His neck is tender and bruisable, perfect for bites that will blossom into lasting, lurid marks. He finishes when you scrape along the shell of one twin-tipped ear, flooding your hand and spilling onto the floor in a splash of color. Your hand moves between your thighs, pressed between your bodies and rubbing steady pressure against your nook. A particularly deep bite makes him whimper, and that nearly does you in. A moment later, a salty tear trickles its way onto your tongue, and it _does_ push you over the edge— _you_ did this to him, _you_ made him this pitiful, these tears are _your_ doing—and your genetic material gushes warm and sticky down your thighs, soaking its way through supposedly-waterproof fabric. Your knees go weak with the force of it and you sink to the floor, panting and satiated with the rush of power.

You’re dizzy, and you have to clutch at the wires to avoid collapsing entirely. Being flushed is entirely different than you’d assumed, overwhelming and shiver-inducing and _completing_ you. It’s mildly amusing that _you’re_ the one on the floor, covered in uncomfortably-cooling fluids, even though you’re above him in station.

What would it be like, if he was awake? Would he beg? Would the tears flow faster down his face as he screamed your name? You would love to suck him dry and lick him clean until every last drop of him was yours, oh yes. And you will, because he’s yours, and he will _always_ be yours. You plan to make sure that even the far-flung corners of the empire recognize this as an incontrovertible fact. You’ll start here and now, with a little gift for the pleasure he’s given you today. A priceless piece of you.

Your jewelry is more than simple vanity. With each heiress defeated you add another piece as a valuable mark of dominance over your enemies, and the tyrian gems that adorn each ornament are exclusively to be worn by you. You would cull nearly anyone for so much as _touching_ one, much less wearing one, but you are a loving master and you will ensure that your new pet belongs unmistakably to you alone. Rings won’t do, because his hands are inaccessible. That rules out most of your bracelets too, but there is—yes, there. It’s the work of a few seconds to slip the bangle from your arm and bend it around his, but you’re distracted from admiring the view when you realize that you’re completely filthy. Aside from the slimy mess in your suit, you’re covered in ochre and your hair is a matted snarl of fibers. Ugh, you need to be in the water five minutes ago.

You’ll leave him like this, you suppose; the attendants will take care of him and it will be obvious that you’re embracing him openly as consort.

One last kiss, then, before you leave. He twitches as you nuzzle against him with your face angled awkwardly to avoid goring him or tangling your horns in the wires. You grin, giddy and satiated. It’s refreshing to be loved rather than feared.

  


image by [anonei](http://aei-sb.tumblr.com/)

———

_Apparently_ , you did not make it obvious enough. The attendants didn’t say a word, and there aren’t even _rumors_ being spread about. You throw the tealblood into the acidic ocean of the next planet you conquer, and make it abundantly clear to the oliveblood that the entire fleet is to be promptly informed of your new consort so that they may celebrate appropriately. Surprisingly, she throws herself headfirst into the task, compiling a map of your ships’ current locations and organizing mass transmissions throughout your domain. She’s wasted on…whatever she does, you don’t really know or care, but it’s nice to see that there’s one troll among trillions that isn’t completely incompetent. Other than you, of course.

You feel compelled to transfer another piece of jewelry to him each time you pail, but the bracelets slide unattractively down his stick-thin arms no matter how tightly you fasten them. That simply won’t do for your official matesprit, so you have to get inventive. You quickly discover that a claw can pierce just as well as a professional, and begin to place golden studs into his freakish ears to match the bangles. It’s not enough. You find yourself so consumed with desire that the piercings begin to spread to his lips, his brows, and his sheath. He screams for that one, even through the soporifics, and you giggle with delight at the revelation that you haven’t grown boring to him, despite the regularity of your visits.

In the end he’s dripping with ornamentation. Your favorite bit is the 2x3dent-shaped pattern of piercings that stretches up the curve of his back and between his shoulderblades, laced tightly with fuchsia and gold ribbon. You rush the last few bits in excitement, forgetting to sterilize your claws before making the holes, and it takes _forever_ for the resulting infection to heal. This is the first time you Touch him. He does not have your permission to die, and you refuse to allow it.

When you’re finally able to pail him, the ribbons make an excellent handhold to boost yourself higher. He thrashes in pain when you bite into the base of a horn—the dents are still there, puffy and irritated, even sweeps afterward—and the ship actually loses power to the lights for a few moments when your jaws break off a brittle tip. You coo and kiss him in the dark until the sweat dries and his panting slows, and you leave satisfied that he won’t deprive you of his services again. Let nobody say you neglect your toys.

(If anyone does, you’ll cull them on the spot.)

  


image by [anonei](http://aei-sb.tumblr.com/)

———

Thousands of sweeps together, and you still can’t get over the way your heart races when he bleeds for you. He’s so pitiful that it’s intoxicating.

———

Something is wrong.

Something is pulling at your mind, making your thoughts sway like a strong wind plucking at a tautly-stretched noose. Impressions of Alternia’s ocean press insistently into the corners of your head, but they morph to nauseating images of vast betentacled beasts and fleeting scratches of cacophonous, twisted sounds that no troll was meant to hear. Not even you, with all your highblooded resistance, can withstand it for long without beginning to go insane. And you don’t like being called insane. It’s bad for your image.

The Glub is coming, and it couldn’t have chosen a worse time. You are going to be rather severe with your lusus about this, but first you must actually _get_ back to dearest Gl’bgolyb. Fortunately, your matesprit was made for this job (who has the best foresight? it is you, always you).

The blueblooded assistant has the gall to argue with you about pulling the soporifics, but you’re the empress and he’s not, and his neck twists into a lovely angle before you drop him to the floor with a crunch. You hiss at the oliveblood to get out, and she scurries through the door with all the loyal urgency of her Ancestor. Good girl. A few quick keystrokes at the panel and you’ve disabled the stream of painkillers and psionic suppressants that have dripped into your helmsman for sweeps. If he's to get you to Alternia in time, he will need his full power, and you know by now that he would never hurt you.

You pace anxiously while you wait for him to gain consciousness, and eventually small flickers of color begin to crawl over his skin. His eyes flutter open drowsily, and you bare your teeth in a reassuring smile. He’s likely confused, after so long under the influence.

“Hello, darling. Sleep well?”

His eyes narrow. He must not be able to talk yet.

“I’m so sorry that our first meeting had to come under these conditions, but I need you to fly us to Alternia as quickly as possible. Spare no effort, dear.”

He tries to speak, but violent coughs shake his thin body. The words come out the second time he tries, though he’s hard to hear.

“And what the fuck maketh you think I would do anything you athked me to, you deluthional thycho?”

He lisps quite badly around the rings in his lips, so it takes you a moment to process what he said. _Oh._ He’s still confused.

“It’s me, you silly fish! Your matespr—”

You’re slammed against the wall, and your thick hair is the only thing that saves you from breaking bones. He’s _snarling_ at you, and oh dear, perhaps you’ve misread this entire thing, because there’s a sudden weight against your throat that makes you gurgle for air and no, it’s not an accident, because he smirks as you try to protest the indignity with dwindling breath. Your gills are flaring painfully, trying to take over the task of breathing, and the world is going patchy and dark around you.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure thomeone will take care of you in the afterlife jutht ath well ath you took care of me.”

It’s hard to string together thoughts, you don’t want to cull him, you’re not sure if you even can, you don’t want to lose him, you can’t talk, you can’t _think,_ you can’t even move, you’re so _angry_ , at him and yourself, and oh yes, you’re going to cull him—

Your ears pop as a shrill screech echoes through space, and you fall to the floor in a graceless heap. The superior instinct that’s kept you alive through thousands of sweeps kicks in, and you throw your weapon at him in self-defense. It flies wide and severs the purplish wires holding an arm up, but it wouldn’t have made a difference anyways because he’s _dead_ , dangling grotesquely, mouth hanging slack in a mocking smile. Bracelets slide over his emaciated hand as it falls, clattering to the floor in a noisy, golden cascade of tinkling laughter and clanking derisively as they bounce and roll away to hide in the far corners of the room.

  


image by [spockandawe](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com)

The lights dim, and a mechanical voice announces that the ship has switched to backup power until the helmsman is repaired. It instructs you not to panic, and reminds you that this is only a temporary inconvenience.

Laughing hurts almost as much as being choked did, because you still haven’t caught your breath and _everything_ hurts right now. You can only keel over on the floor as you giggle madly, hands over your face and hair wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

The situation is just so glubbing _hilarious._

Ahaha, he didn’t even like you to begin with, did he? He was playing you all along, acting the pitiful fool so you would grant him mercy and jeweled baubles. This, _this,_ is why you haven’t had a concupiscent partner that lasted more than a sweep before, because you can’t trust anyone, no matter how badly you want to. You’ve got the worst luck—you’re intelligent and strong and royal and beautiful but you’ve always been alone, and now you’re _truly_ alone, empress of a wrecked empire, trapped undying on a piece of hardware drifting lazily through endless stars and ether.

And you learn that tears hurt worse than laughter.

———

Six hundred and twelve sweeps is a long time, even for you, and it’s a blessing when the ship crashes at last onto crater-scarred Alternian soil. The unpolluted ocean tastes pure and refreshing, and you’re swimming for what feels like the first time in your life when you hear the crunching of rocks behind you. It’s a lowblood with heavy, curling horns, clad in black and green. There are wicked needles in her hand, and her eyes seem haunted by ghosts and the passage of an eternity.

She begs you to kill her. The payment she offers is more than enough to convince you, even if it means leaving yourself alone in the universe yet again, because there are now infinite universes under your thumb.

Surely, one of them holds a helmsman that will love you back.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [this](http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/90721/) [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ma0J5pWpTM). The lyrics tidily summarize the Condesce's delusions.  
> Friendly reminder: Sadism does not necessarily make a relationship unhealthy. Condy's issue is _consent_ , or the lack thereof.


End file.
